Contemplating Cross
by Absinthe HiddenCloak
Summary: Were they really so different? Altair/Desmond slash


The two white shadows approached the top of the crane swiftly. Lights glowed below them as the city nightlife went on, oblivious to went on in the sky.

"We jump on count of three," one of the shadows said, his deep, smooth voice breaking the silence.

His smaller companion sighed. "Any chance we could just sneak past on the ground level?"

A chuckle. "Desmond, I have helped you to prepare for this. It is a Leap of Faith without hay, but we will be fine. These..._parhachutes_ of yours will allow us to fly."

"Alright, then. I guess it's now or never." and so saying, Desmond moved ahead, leaping off the end of the crane. Altair watched his descendant for a moment before he followed. Cold wind rushed past his face as he fell, screaming in his ears, and he felt weightless. Then at just the right moment he reached up to yank the cord and deploy his parachute. The great canvas structure unfurled itself, slowing his fall and allowing the assassin to direct himself toward his target.

Altair saw Desmond ahead of him, looking like a swooping eagle in his decent. The older man savored the sight; Desmond was a spectacular learner, and the only thing that held him back from being the best the order had ever seen was his fear. But Altair understood the fear. It was only natural to be uneasy when one was put under pressure, expected to never fail.

When he got close enough Desmond released his parachute, landing on the skyscraper's rooftop with a roll and a _thud_. Picking himself up quickly, the ex-bartender got out of the way so his ancestor could land. He looked up at the stars in silent prayer that this mission would not go wrong. Each time they left the hideout there was a chance they could be killed - or worse, captured. Altair's landing forced the younger assassin to force all concerns away and still his thoughts. Instinct, Altair had taught him, once properly honed, would save you every time in a pressing situation.

Finding a good route down the side of the building, Altair found himself rather confused and lost. Damn these cursed future people who built maze-like workplaces! One surely needed a map to navigate the inside of this place! He was confused, and only looking at the very edges. It irked the Syrian to no end.

A soft whistle caught his attention. Gaze snapping instantly to Desmond, Altair moved to his descendant's side. The ex-bartender pointed wordlessly at a desk in one of the rooms.

They smashed the glass - no time for finesse - and landed with twin _whump_ sounds on the lush but plain carpet. Spartan looking, the room was hardly distinguishable from any of the others. Except, of course, by the 1st Civilization power core contained by a small glass case. Victory! But they both knew something was off. Breaking away from his descendant, Altair left Desmond to retrieve the core while he scouted the area. A _crunch_ behind the Syrian announced the smashing of the case.

_Click._

Desmond and Altair found themselves face to face with a large caliber handgun. On the other end of it a rather nasty looking man smirked at them.

"Hand it over," he sneered.

The only response he got was a fist to his face. Desmond fled immediately as planned, allowing Altair to deal with this Templar goon. Taking in the man's messy brown hair and informal clothes, Altair frowned.

"You are familiar."

"Name's Daniel Cross, _hashashin._" Mockery filled the young man's tone. Flinty anger welled up inside the Syrian's heart. Yes, this was the..._sleepagent_ who had killed one of the assassin mentors. Desmond and Shawn had told the story in hushed tones. Even speaking of those who had betrayed the Order was considered bad luck, the'd said. Altair did not fault them for this. It did not bode well that Templars could be hidden so easily among them. But to him, talking seemed the best way to understand how the _sleepers_ worked. How to combat them.

"I remember hearing of you. The traitor," Altair voiced aloud. "Go to your God, then, and beg his forgiveness."

Blood streamed to the floor from the deep rip in Cross's neck. Altair stood, took one final look at the scene, and fled. He and Desmond were done here.

Some hours later the Eagle of Masyaf stood atop a large rock formation as he watched the rising sun. Songbirds fluttered around him, unconcerned about the human that dared to come close to the sky. The Syrian did not flinch when an arm wrapped around his waist in a soft, loving gesture. He was preoccupied with thoughts of betrayal and failure, redemption and acceptance.

Cross and he were alike in many ways. Both of them had failed their masters, their Order. However, there was a cowardice in Cross that made Altair grimace. The man had killed his target and fled to beg shelter from Templars, whereas Altair had failed to kill a Templar and fled to beg forgiveness from his Order. No, he realized. Their actions made them different, even

though the situations were undoubtedly alike.

Warm breath on his neck shook Altair from his thoughts. "You gonna sit here all morning?"

Turning to his descendant, the Eagle chuckled. "So impatient, Desmond. Really, you must learn to control that."

"Something bothering you?" the question did not feel like a question, considering how bluntly it was asked. Desmond did not suspect, he knew.

Running a hand through his hair, Altair pushed back the hood of his white sweatshirt. In the multicolored sunrise his golden eyes gleamed beautifully. For a moment Desmond just allowed himself to get lost in his ancestor's eyes, but then the other man was talking and he brought his mind back to the present.

"That man, he said he was Dan-yel Cross." Altair did not need to see Desmond's face to know that his descendant was raising an eyebrow. "I was thinking about his betrayal, the way he was manipulated. The way he reacted as only a coward would."

Desmond groaned. "It's too early in the morning for all this ethics stuff. But I guess you're right. I never thought of him as a friend, like some people did before he went off. All he ever was to me was an enemy." The ex-bartender paused for a moment, fixing Altair with a disapproving look. "He isn't - wasn't - like you. Ever. I know that much."

_Stop feeling bad about it,_ the unspoken message in those words warned.

Nodding, Altair wrapped his arms gently around Desmond, leaning into the younger male's body. No need to worry about that, then. There were other - more pleasant - things to do, he thought, pressing his lips to his companion's.

**A short little one-shot about Altair and Desmond. Those who've played AC3 will recognise the mission they were on :) Any questions, don't hesitate to ask.**


End file.
